


love (is not a victory march)

by predicaments



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, awkward cute gallavich times, comic books, comic store au, firecrotch, it's fucking cute alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predicaments/pseuds/predicaments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian only ever wanted shelter from the rain, but he can't deny himself the pleasure of a hot guy (especially not one who calls him 'firecrotch').</p>
            </blockquote>





	love (is not a victory march)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen.

Ian thought, fuck it. Who cares that it’s nearly eleven at night and this place is probably shutting down and will try to get rid of him as soon as one sopping holey shoe fits itself through the door. It is cold, it is wet, there is wind, and darkness. It’s a stupid idea to be out this late on the South Side anyway (Ian knows that, of course he does, sometimes he just loses track of time, and it’s always later than predicted), best to find some protection, somewhere to dry off, get in from the rain because Ian swears he is turning into a human washing machine. His clothes are cleaner tonight then they have been in a long while, he thinks. Anyway, this shop – Galactic Comics (what the fuck sort of name is that anyway?) – is blazing its lights across the road to the shop front Ian is huddling beneath, so he decides to go for it, cross the street, and pushes open the door. He leans on it to close it, breathing out at the sudden warmth and the bright colours from the head high shelves stacked brimming with comics.  
It feels a bit weird to be in here, it’s not like Ian likes comics really, or anything, he knows the basics, watched some Batman films, totally doesn’t drool over the tight costumes stretched over those muscles. No. Totally not. ‘Galactic Comics’ is deserted of any customers – aside Ian – anyway; so no chance for him to embarrass himself with a lack of comprehension and trying to make himself sound knowledgeable on the story of (Ian scans the row of comics to his left quickly, brow furrowed slightly) Nightwing… Whoever that is. Ian lets out a sigh and scrubs a rain-soaked hand through the same rain-soaked hair, making no difference, but at least moving the clumps of wet hair away from sticking to his forehead, moving them into wild blades on his head.  
Deciding, that while he’s in here, Ian should take advantage of all these comics, and have a browse, he steps forward, wincing at the echoes his feet make on the wood floor, feeling very much like a burglar rather than a customer. Is this place even open? There’s no store clerk, but no sign on the glass door either, just lots of outdated flyers and some cobwebs, mirroring the large glass windows, the walls, and the faded display in the front that looks like it hasn’t be changed – or even touched – in a couple of years. Ian glances around again, looking behind him at the slightly muddy footprints his trainers have made on the scuffed and marked wood. Hopefully whoever is here won’t mind about that…someone has to be here, right? Ian thinks he sees a light from the storeroom at the back, a faint flickering kind of glow – something like the bad bulbs and dodgy lighting at Ian’s own house, a sign of low wealth.  
Another step, more echoes, Ian tenses and strains his ears, wondering if someone is gonna come out and start yelling about being closed. Ian tilts forward on one soggy trainer, and, upon hearing a scuffling noise, loses his balance, skids on the soggy material he has to call shoes, and ends up face first in a plastic floor shelf – thing. And bloody hell, that hurts. There is sharp, weird smelling paper in Ian’s face and the sound his own groans as well as a slight echo in his ears of the fall he just attempted.  
“Who’s there?” Ian hears, face first in a huge row of Justice League comics, before the sounds of footsteps, a door slamming open and then –  
“Motherfucker,” A slight chuckle, a dry kind of laugh that sounds unpractised and harsh. Ian raises his head from the comic books in his mouth, eye smarting from one pesky page that got him in the eye.  
“The fuck?” Ian hears again, this guys’ voice a welcome change to the sound of rain that had previously been all Ian could hear (and the scary sound of his own breathing, but Ian doesn’t want to get into that right now, or ever, really).  
Ian scrabbles with his hands for a second, before getting his grips on the sides of the shelves and pushing himself up in one solid movement, turning around quickly, embarrassment pulsing at his cheeks. They’re bright red and there’s water dropping into Ian’s eyes and his leg hurts from where he hit it on the shelf – there will be a bruise tomorrow; Ian thinks, looking at this guy, he couldn’t care less if he got a thousand bruises – but Ian hopes he still looks presentable, he grins, hopes his smile isn’t too bad, hopes those red cheeks still look like berries from being out in the cold and not tomatoes from embarrassing yourself in front of a stranger. Is there a specific blush for that, Ian wonders? Can this guy, resting on the balls of his feet, chewing on his lip, read the blush on Ian’s cheek, or, worse, can he read the fact that Ian finds this dude totally friggin’ hot?  
“I fell over.” Ian shrugs, cursing himself instantaneously as the words leave his lips, already imagining them on this strangers’. They’re chapped. Ian always had a thing for chapped lips. And this rugged, definitely South Side look this guy has going on – the type that doesn’t shower. But, that grime around the edges works on this guy, Ian couldn’t explain it, but it really works.  
“I see that, you dumbfuck.” The guy says, and Ian wonders why he works in a comic store. Doesn’t look like he reads many comics. Doesn’t look like he reads at all. Doesn’t really look like he socialises much, either. A recluse. Ian digs it. “Why are you here, it’s fucking eleven at night, you’re fucking soaked through? And now you’ve gone and fucked up these comics.” This guy peers round Ian, so he moves to the left slightly, letting himself grin at this swearing store clerk, “Oh, Justice League, go ahead, go fall back on it. Fucking hate Justice League. At least it’s not Batman.” The guy looks back at Ian, suddenly realises the bat in his hand Ian hadn’t even noticed before, and puts it down on the floor (good; he has identified Ian as non-threatening), “Don’t fucking grin at me like that.”  
“Sorry,” Ian mutters, but he allows his lips to curl up again ever-so-slightly, just so the store clerk sees it and glares at him. Ian likes his glares. Although Ian is sure a smile from this guy would be beautiful at least, Ian knows already that that’s a long-shot. So; Ian likes his glares, the scoffs, the way this guy rubs the corner of his mouth with his thumb. The way he slouches, the way he says ‘fuck’. It’s been less than five minutes and Ian’s already smitten. That’s probably a record for the books, if Ian could think of anything other than the black-clad man stood in front of him. A comic book store of all places, who would have known? “I’m Ian, by the way.” Ian beams, trying to make the sun shine out of the spaces between his teeth, wanting to see how this guy looks, natural in the sunlight, in front of him. Ian knows, or thinks he knows, that this guy could only look better in the powerful sunlight – some people look worse, but Ian can tell, this guy would look enlightening under the sun, all natural and the like. Yeah… Ian can imagine it now.  
“I’m Mickey.” The guy almost scoffs, and Ian rolls ‘Mickey’ around with his tongue between his cheeks, biting down on the letters and letting them slip like cigarette smoke from between pursed lips.  
“So, you work here?” Ian asks, before Mickey comes and stands right beside Ian, so they are nearly touching, then bending over to the shelf Ian had previously been trapped by, and starting un-crinkling the comics with agitated movements, straightening out the crumpled thin-paper pages and stacking them back neatly. “I’m sorry for falling on the comics.” Ian apologies, realising it’s only right; he’s probably disturbed Mickey’s whole night, he probably just wants Ian to leave so he can go home and not think about the ginger kid who took refuge in his store ever again. That prospect kind of makes Ian sad, and the sadness annoys him.  
“You never fucking shut up do you, firecrotch?” Mickey asks, straightening one final comic book to his ideal of alright (screwed up, creased, torn comics and a shelf with a dent in it thanks to Ian’s flailing limbs). “Of course I fucking work here, what’s this?” Mickey shoves the nametag pinned to his shirt in Ian’s direction, and Ian sees his bitten, stumped fingernails for the first time, surrounded by dirty skin and scratches littering the back of hand, and a tattoo across his knuckles that Ian reads as ‘fuck u-up’. He nearly laughs, but doesn’t, because Ian truly doesn’t doubt that allegation for a second.  
“So, you like comics then, Mickey?” Ian asks, trying to force the ache in his leg away because fuck it’s almost as distracting as Mickey’s face (which says a lot). Mickey looks at Ian, actually looks, at the mention of his name, as if he doesn’t hear it a lot, and Ian makes it his goal (at least for the night, the amount of time he has with Mickey before Mickey kicks him out) to use his name as much as possible. Ian loves the feel, the taste, of it on his tongue. It’s breath-taking.  
“I donno.” Mickey turns away from Ian slightly, as if he’s embarrassed, “Doesn’t fucking matter.”  
“Oh.” Ian says, looks back over his shoulder, sees that it’s no longer raining and suddenly gets this feeling low in his stomach that Mickey’s going to kick him out now, is going to say get out, I don’t need you, he’ll leave and they’ll never see each other again, but no, Ian needs more of Mickey; needs a number or something, something to cling to: this encounter…it’s special.  
“Can I have your number?” Ian asks, just as Mickey spits out, turning away from Ian again when Ian swivels back from looking out the huge glass windows of the front of the shop, stomach plummeting because Ian, this bubbly, friendly, firecrotch is already looking for escape, already wants to leave, Mickey can’t help feel stupid for getting his hopes up, knew this would be a repeat of every time before (why would he ever be so stupid as to think anything different?),  
“You can fucking go if you want. I’m not fucking keeping you here.”  
“Oh.” Says Ian again, blushing red, of course he had to go and get it all wrong, Mickey would never be interested in a guy like him, how stupid Ian had to be to think Mickey actually wanted him, to think that the tough front was only an act (well, partially).  
“Oh.” Echoes Mickey, and he feels like he’s soaring for a second. Mickey is pretty sure no one has ever asked him for his number before. Ever. That shit just doesn’t happen to Mickey. No one’s ever stuck around once Mickey opens his mouth (Except for Mandy, but she’s kind of obligated, being his kid sister and everything).  
“You want me to leave?” Ian chokes out, stumbling on the words, wishing it would start to pour again outside so at least the weather would for once match Ian’s now dying mood.  
“You want my number?” Mickey asks, voice higher pitched than normal and face flushed, despite him trying to keep it neutral, still with a hint of tough South Side boy, still trying to make his father proud. After all this time, all the new independence, Mickey still wishes he could be more like his family. Less gay; more man. And not working in a comic book store (although, to tell the truth, Mickey loves comic books and the pay is really good).  
For a couple of seconds, Ian and Mickey stumble, feet, tripping; sentences, fumbling, like awkward footsteps in the dark, they both hesitate, words sinking into their brains, marking, dominating, ‘till all they can see is each other’s lips. Mickey hears Ian let out a diffident breath, one exhale, and that’s enough. Mickey doesn’t let Ian inhale again. His lips are already on Ian’s lips, mouth moving and praying it’s the right thing to do, hoping his signals are right, that Ian wants this too.  
Ian is taken by surprise. That’s not to say he doesn’t like it. He likes it a lot. But he’s still taken by surprise. Ian likes the roughness of Mickey’s chapped lips on his own calmer, softer ones, and in the silence of the store, Ian can hear, for one, fleeting moment, Mickey’s heartbeat thump in his lip, blood rushing, mouths matching their movements like mirrors, or twins made from the same clay.  
Mickey nearly stops, terrified of the nearly still lips beneath his. Mickey rarely misreads signals (but that’s probably because Mickey rarely acts upon signals; barely even receives signals, really).  
Mickey is just about to pull away when Ian presses his lips firmer to Mickey’s. Their feet shuffle in their shoes, hands shivering – but not from the cold – from the warmth of their shared heat as their bodies collide, meeting in passion as Ian hungrily slides his lips over Mickey’s, recuperating, giving, letting a grin live beneath the roaring, pumping animal which is their touching hands.  
Mickey has never held hands with a guy before. Ian can sense it from the tenderness to his tough hands, can smell it on Mickey like a beautiful disease. Ian knows it feels – at least to him – like the first time he’s ever held hands with a guy too.  
Mickey has to fight the urge to pull away, but Ian holds firm; places their foreheads together; looks into Mickey’s eyes, an abyss, and sees the darkness there slowly fill with light.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write more then this for this story, but it's been a month since an update, so I decided to update today regardless. I've had this idea for a while. I hope it came out alright!
> 
> EDIT (30 Sep 2014): Thank you all for over 500 reads in less then a day! The support is truly amazing :)


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